lovely
by gryffindormischief
Summary: I hope some day I'll make it out of here Even if it takes all night or a hundred years Jily AU


A/N: for the gorgeous, _lovely_, amazing, brilliant petalstofish on her birthday. This is an AU

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Purpose was all she had been looking for. In a world where it seemed everyone was adrift, left at the mercy of forces they didn't know or understand it felt like her knowledge was a burden that couldn't be lifted. A burden that served nothing but the ever-present ache in her bones.

Purpose is what she got, that night in Dorchester after Mary ended up in Mungo's and left a week later with a new tremor in her hand.

But what she'd never known about the all consuming nature of certain life's pursuits is the terrible horrible loneliness of it. Still faced with the despair, still locked in an endless, hopeless sort of struggle but now it's shared. Only the sharing doesn't lighten the weight - in the sharing she shoulders her own fears and hurts and accepts new burdens from each new face. And with each face lost it's like dragging her feet through quicksand.

Simplistic and childish as it sounds, especially for a woman who's washed the blood from her hands enough that her knuckles are split for scrubbing, everything changes when he arrives.

It's beyond the carefree tilt of his lips, the determined set of his jaw, the sureness of his fingers wrapped around his wand. The minute her eyes meet his it's like a recognition burns between them, recognition born before now, before the war, before the stars.

The moment is passing, too much to be done, too many people to try - and often fail - to save. A world descended into madness seldom stops for a chance meeting.

They're not assigned together for another month, a raid on one of the underground cells where muggleborns are being held for 'suspicious displays of magic' which, as far as she can tell is any sort of display of magic by a muggleborn.

When Moody gives the signal, each team moves in unison toward their targets, surrounding the horrid prison from all angles.

They're assigned to the rear entrance, where their contact placed the 're-education' center. They're assigned to the only room it's too late to 're assigned to the room that finally shatters her carefully constructed walls.

But instead of crumbling, weeping into the lifeless forms strewn about like so much trash, her fist tightens around her wand.

Her magic is stolen? She's not worthy? At least now she can earn the title of thief and sinner.

The first slash of her wand colors the air with the lifeblood of her opponent, his teeth gritting in pain as she advances closer, crunching his wand beneath her boot.

The man, this cowering, hideous being who doesn't deserve to be named let alone allowed to live - she could end it all here. Strike back once to begin evening the scales already so egregious tipped in the favor of terror.

But her moment of hesitation leaves an opening. Not for her opponent. He's weakening by the second. Her partner, her partner and his wide, kind hazel eyes so filled with compassion and rage.

He might judge her, might see that she's wild with grief and anger and so far from the little girl who could make flowers bloom in the palm of her hand, but it really does feel as though she's left all that behind. Each tear at her skin, knife to her heart, only served as a birth of a stony resolve. Someday, she'd mourn the loss of who she could have been, but today she's an avenging angel, the stopping place where this snake is held accountable.

But when she's given the chance, when those hazel eyes watch quietly, the remaining guards subdued in the corner, the fire bleeds from her veins and she's left with complete and utter exhaustion.

The rest of the night is automatic movements, mindless as she helps transport the tired, terrified, and confused muggleborns to a secure location. After her last run, she finds herself sitting alone at a wobbly kitchenette, warm mug of something clutched between her palms.

A hand to her shoulder calls her from another sleepless night, her pulse thrums as she upends her mug and holds a wand to his throat.

He brushes aside her apologies, her assurances she's alright, and somehow shepherds her back to Dorchester, and into a bed.

That first night, she doesn't know she's fallen asleep until she wakes with a scream, visions of red spray across her hands, crimson stains that will never wash away. And there in the dark, dingy room, she finally cries for it all. It's a deep, bone rattling sort of mourning and she doesn't realize she's trembling until warm, sure arms wrap around her.

It doesn't take much effort to find his eyes in the dark, and only a little more to find his lips. Each sigh that leaves him breathes air into her lungs, each touch creates tiny fissures in her stony mind, mends her shattered heart. But it doesn't last.

He pulls away, eyes wild and lips parted, and holds her to his chest, utterly chaste and offering more comfort than she'd have thought possible. In the quiet - save the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear - he lets her weep for everything lost and everything that will never be.

She expects, after that night, to be Moody's new 'special project' or placed on the back lines. She'd nearly drained a man and felt no remorse. At least not in the moment, not until he called her back from the brink. But the watchful eyes never come and the grind continues, each new headline grating her hope to irredeemable shards.

Each new assignment merely a plug in an ever leaking barrel, lives saved, attacks stopped, only to find ten more went by unnoticed and unmourned. Still they go on, slicing the Hydra's heads in a never ending fight for the right to exist.

And at the end of each day, she stumbles her way to a room, moldy, damp, and moonlit. And somehow, he's always there. Firm and strong and somehow still lovely in spite of it all.

After the dark night where she shattered, he always begins in the bed beside her and though they never address it, the nature of whatever this is, they never hesitate to knit their bodies together like a braided knot, hearts beating in time.

It's the same, an odd sort of normalcy carved out in the wake of the world, until it's not. Until the nights turn warm, warmer. Until his heartbeat thuds in her ear with nothing between them. Until his palms reverently map her scars, his fingers find each mark of her life spent fighting.

Before long, his lips follow his fingers, her breaths mingle with his, and the tiny bed creaks to life with the joining of their souls.

They're quiet, eyes locked and skin hot, as she learns each bruise, sinew, and blemish on his body.

It's a natural dance, comfort in each stroke like they've lived in this moment for a hundred years, and each kiss is a reminder that in each other, they're here, breathing, home.

After life will still be terrible, horrible, hopeless - and just a little lovely.


End file.
